A Restlessness in Common
by JenF
Summary: Fours days ago, Aramis disappeared, but they're like magnets, these men. They will always find each other and they will defend each other to the death if necessary. General all round whump but mostly Aramis and d'Artagnan.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: A Restlessness in Common  
**Author**: JenF  
**Chapters**: 1 of ?  
**Disclaimer**: I do not own the The Three Musketeers, D'Artagnan, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun.

* * *

Aramis should be doing this, thinks Athos as he lines up the musket, leaning on the decaying wall for balance. He spares the time to glance to his left where he can see Porthos taking careful aim with his own musket. Athos allows himself a brief moment of satisfaction before looking to the wall opposite, where he can see d'Artagnan concentrating on the tableau set out beneath them for their pleasure. Aramis should be doing this, he thinks again.

But Aramis is the reason they're here. Their crack shot, the best shooter in the regiment, is the one down in the deserted courtyard below them. On his knees, hands bound behind his back, head bowed through either exhaustion or some unseen coercion.

Part of Athos wants his younger companion to show some sign that he knows they're there, they haven't abandoned him – would never abandon him. He wants Aramis to climb to his feet and just run. But he knows there's someone, somewhere with his own musket trained on the figure below them. One false move and Aramis will pay with his life.

He catches a glint of light from somewhere in the distance and his attention is immediately taken away from Aramis' predicament. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Porthos has also noticed it. D'Artagnan is still focused on Aramis so Athos assumes he hasn't seen it. In a way he's glad. It means at least one of them is still watching over Aramis.

Porthos is raising his musket, pointing it at something Athos can't see yet. He squints into the dying sunlight, trying to see whatever it is that Porthos has seen. There's nothing, but that doesn't worry Athos. He trusts his comrades and if Porthos has spotted something, he's happy for him to deal with it.

A creaking of rusty hinges distracts him from Porthos' mission and he tenses, looking back down to Aramis.

The ground beneath Aramis' knees is dry and dusty. The evening breeze is creating tiny whirlwinds of sand around his heels. He's not showing anything, but Athos would like to bet the feeling in his toes is numb to say the least. Behind him, old, decrepit stable doors are swinging slowly open. Athos straightens his back, taking time only to check on d'Artagnan and Porthos before watching the scene below him.

Aramis has obviously heard the doors, and possibly something out of Athos' earshot, and he raises his head, defiance rolling off his shoulders. It's the first time Athos has seen his face for four days and he doesn't like what he sees. The time obviously hasn't passed easily for the stricken soldier. He's pale, more pale than Athos is happy with, and his hair is hanging in limp curls around his face. Athos isn't sure from this distance but he's pretty certain the shadows around Aramis' eyes and cheekbones aren't due to the setting sun. He's seen bruises before but for some reason these ones make him feel sick. Probably, he muses, because he wasn't there to stop them happening.

Athos looks across to d'Artagnan and sees a similar reaction to his own in the young recruit's face. Aramis is shifting on his knees and Athos wonders if he's about to do something incredibly stupid. He needs to let the soldier below him know he's no longer alone before it's too late.

But then it doesn't really matter any more as Porthos, clearly no longer able to contain himself, stands up, breaking cover and shouting to his dearest friend to take heart, or something along those lines – Porthos never was the most eloquent Musketeer. Athos watches as Aramis twists his head round, sees the moment he understands his brothers are here for him. He sees determination renewed in Aramis' stance and a twitch of his head to his left, unnoticeable by any but his closest allies, that informs Athos that they are as much the hunted as the hunters.

But Porthos may have jumped the gun, Athos realises with a sinking heart as the sound of a musket shot rings out from somewhere behind d'Artagnan.

Later, Athos will swear blind he didn't scream, but in the failing daylight, he shouts a warning to Porthos, ordering him with controlled panic to get down. He sees Porthos fall, sees dust dance around in the air where Porthos stood only seconds ago and then he sees only red as he turns to where the shot came from and sees the shooter standing calmly behind d'Artagnan, holding a musket to the boy's head.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title**: A Restlessness in Common  
**Author**: JenF  
**Chapters**: 2 of ?  
**Disclaimer**: I do not own the The Three Musketeers, D'Artagnan, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun.

* * *

d'Artagnan stretches his gun hand out, flexing his fingers to release some of the tension that has built up over the last hour. He thinks he's been crouching behind this wall for most of the afternoon but he lost track of time some while ago. Not that it really matters, he'll stay here all week if that's what it takes to get Aramis back. None of them will leave here without their fallen comrade, that much he knows.

He studies the courtyard below him, taking note of where Aramis might have been held, where his captors, cowards that they are, might be hiding. There are three sets of stable doors, all of them closed, and a crumbling block which, d'Artagnan presumes, used to house the serving staff. The manor house has long since been destroyed.

The musketeers have the advantage of height – d'Artagnan can see clearly everything below him and, with only a little adjustment of position, all around him. The scenery is bleak without being depressing – a few shrubs and trees sparsely scattered around. The summer heat has dried any moisture from the ground and when the air shifts, it takes the dust with it.

d'Artagnan looks across to where Athos and Porthos are settled in their positions. He catches Athos' eye and nods briefly. He's ready for whatever is to come. He'll fight for Aramis, for Athos, for Porthos without question, without a second thought. They would, he knows, do the same for him. What he doesn't know is why they haven't yet made a move.

And then Porthos launches himself out of hiding to yell to Aramis, and that's when everything falls apart.

d'Artagnan watches in fascinated horror as Porthos falls, hears Athos' cry and then, when it's too late, far too late, he hears footsteps falling on the cracked, dry earth behind him. He whirls round, his pistol held firmly in his hand, other hand already going to the hilt of his sword, but his actions are pointless.

The man behind him, kerchief across his face making it impossible for d'Artagnan to identify him, is fast. His foot flies out with deadly accuracy, knocking the gun from d'Artagnan's hand. d'Artagnan feels the shock waves reverberate up his arm, loses the feeling in his fingers instantly and somewhere in the back of his mind he finds the time to hope it's only temporary.

Instinctively his other hand grips the hilt of his sword but the unmistakable sound of a pistol hammer being drawn back freezes him in place. He lets his hand drop – Athos and the others may think he's hotheaded but he knows when to accept defeat – and looks the man in the eye. He can't be sure because of the kerchief covering the lower half of the man's face but he thinks there's a smile under there and it makes him feel sick.

"Turn around," he's ordered. The voice is soft, softer than d'Artagnan was expecting, but determined and the musketeer thinks it best not to argue at this stage. He raises his hands in surrender and complies with the order. He finds himself looking directly at Athos and he can't decide which feels worse –the look of controlled panic on his mentor's face or the feel of cold metal at the back of his head which he knows he stands no chance against.

"Stand up," the voice behind him commands, the words accompanied by a gentle nudge with the muzzle of the gun at his head. Not breaking eye contact with Athos, d'Artagnan complies, climbing from his knees to his feet. At this angle he realises his assailant is shorter than him and he wonders if this is going to give him an advantage or not. Athos, opposite him, shakes his head and d'Artagnan wonders how he knew what he was thinking. Resigning himself to his fate, for now, d'Artagnan relaxes slightly, allowing himself time to assess the situation, looking for options, looking for a way out of this mess.

He's not surprised to have his hands pulled behind his back and he lets it happen, watching Aramis below him. The beleaguered musketeer has been watching Porthos and Athos, seemingly transfixed on Porthos' fate. The older musketeer hasn't reappeared since he fell and although d'Artagnan is worried by that, Athos doesn't seem inclined to rush to his rescue. There must, d'Artagnan muses, be a reason for Athos' inaction, but he can't for the life of him think what it might be.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title**: A Restlessness in Common  
**Author**: JenF  
**Chapters**: 3 of ?  
**Disclaimer**: I do not own the The Three Musketeers, D'Artagnan, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun.

* * *

Aramis waits in silence, on his knees on the dusty ground, ignoring the grit that makes its presence known with a constant sharpness. He knows he's being watched from the stable block, knows what's at stake here, so when he tugs gently on the coarse rope binding his wrists together he does it subtly. He can't afford to be seen.

On the other hand, he can't afford to be complacent either. He's been out here since the sun sat high in the sky, heat beating down on him, burning his face so slowly he's not even really aware of the damage it's doing.

He should, he reflects, have made a break for it two days ago, when they left him unattended for the first, and last, time. He's always relished company, he's not a man with whom solitude sits well, but their constant company in his darkened prison had worn thin after just a couple of hours.

Fatigue never seems to be far around the corner for Aramis now. He hasn't slept properly since he was taken, food and drink have been sparse and hardly up to his mother's standards or even what he's grown used to at the garrison. He hardly dares to close his eyes for fear they will not open again.

As the sun drifts slowly, blessedly, down to meet the horizon, Aramis lets his head drop slightly, feeling the muscles in his neck creak and protest the movement. He knows his friends will not abandon him, but he also knows how easy it is to disappear in Paris if a man is really set on it. He's done it himself from time to time. He wonders what purpose this sitting out in the open does.

Aramis doesn't keep track of time. For the first day or two he tried, but it seemed a pointless exercise. His captors don't keep to a routine and other than watching the sunrise and set, Aramis no longer knows nor cares what hour it is. Which is why, when he hears the doors of the stable creak open, he knows without a shadow of a doubt his time is up.

He straightens up instinctively. If they are going to kill him – and he thinks they are – they will not have the pleasure of having destroyed his spirit too. His hair sticks to his face and what would he give to be able to brush those unruly strands out of his eyes. But the bonds hold tight and, as he senses, rather than sees, the doors swing open, resignation to his fate settles in for the duration.

_My friends have not come_, he thinks. _They have not found me_. He knows the guilt and recrimination that Athos will claim as his right when his body is found. He knows d'Artagnan will be shattered to his core – the boy has seen death, his father, fellow musketeers, and he hides it well, Aramis reflects, but he feels every death deeply. And Porthos? Porthos, his dearest, closest, most loved of friends. He will be haunted to the end of his days, become reckless with his own life, fight for the wrong reasons.

Aramis may be about to die, but he doesn't want this on his conscience.

He shifts awkwardly on his knees when a light catches his eye. Hope is raised in his heart. Maybe, just maybe, he's wrong and he is no longer alone. And then he sees and hears the most beautiful and most terrifying thing he could imagine.

Porthos has risen into his line of vision and is shouting something. Aramis can't make out his words through the buzzing in his head. He shakes his head to clear the fading edges of his vision. Afterwards he thinks this was the moment he saw the danger. He looks back to Porthos, knowing that where one is, the others can't be far away. He's not wrong – Athos is just to the right and although he can't see d'Artagnan, Aramis knows he will be there somewhere.

He feels Athos' eyes on him and a sixth sense has Aramis indicating to his left, to where he's sure he caught a glimpse of metal in the fading sunlight. He means to ask if d'Artagnan is over there but before Athos can respond, he hears a shot ring out and Porthos, his beautiful Porthos, is gone.

For one long moment, Aramis thinks he's going to faint. He stares at the spot where Porthos stood just seconds ago and watches the dust swirling in his place. At least he thinks it's dust. It might be the world closing in on him, a visual accompaniment to the ringing echoing around his head.

He finds himself swaying on unsteady knees, oblivious to his surroundings, unable to fathom how Porthos could be gone so suddenly. Perhaps this is a ruse, he thinks, knowing he's grasping at straws. Perhaps any minute now Porthos is going to appear behind him. But a split second look at Athos and his hopes for Porthos are shattered afresh. Athos is as still as a statue, staring across the chasm that is the courtyard at something or someone Aramis is neither able, nor willing to look at.

His eyes are still fixed on the spot where Porthos fell when he feels a hand fisting in his hair and his attention is rudely diverted. He allows his head to be pulled back until he's looking up at the sky and he finds himself wondering where the evening birds have gone. There should be some sign of life, he muses bizarrely, bats or birds or even just dragonflies. Maybe, he thinks, God is mourning with him, filling the world with the emptiness Aramis feels in his soul.

The touch of cold steel against his throat brings him back to reality with a crash and suddenly everything is amplified a thousand times. He can feel every hair on his head being wrenched out and he wants to fight against it. But he won't. Because he's not on his own and he won't risk any more lives on his behalf. The loss is already too great.

"Monsieur Athos," a voice rings out from the courtyard, but not, Aramis notes, the man behind him. "Come and join us, please. Aramis is already here and d'Artagnan has graciously accepted our invitation."

Aramis cannot miss the implication in the speech. Athos and d'Artagnan are alive but Porthos hasn't even been worth a mention. The only thing holding him up right now is that hand in his hair and knife at his throat.

He's not sure that's enough any more.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title**: A Restlessness in Common  
**Author**: JenF  
**Chapters**: 4 of ?  
**Disclaimer**: I do not own the The Three Musketeers, D'Artagnan, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun.

* * *

Looking back, Porthos will swear blind he knew exactly what he was doing but right now, lying on his back, looking up at the heavy foliage of the ash tree he finds himself under, his plans are unformed to say the least.

He can hear shouting in the courtyard below him and he catches Athos' and d'Artagnan's names in the breeze. Part of him wants to crawl to his feet, peer past the cover of the boulder before him to check on their beleaguered comrade, but he won't.

He can't.

And he can't quite believe how undeniably stupid he's been. He can feel his blood pulsing through his veins, slowly dripping on to the ground beneath him from the bullet wound in his side. He thinks it's only grazed him but it hurts like hell and he knows from bitter experience if he tries to move too soon he'll only end up swooning like a girl. He'll be no good to anyone like that.

Slowly, it dawns on him that his name wasn't mentioned. He's not as intellectual as Aramis, poetry and reading were never his pastimes of choice, but he's street smart. Growing up in the Court does that to a man. It can only mean one thing, he realises. Whoever is down there thinks he's dead. Or at least, not a threat.

He lets a slow smile find its way on to his face. That, he thinks, is their first mistake. He turns his head to see what he can see from here. A shadow passes over him and he winks at Athos as the older man steps gracefully over his outstretched legs. Athos acknowledges him with an imperceptible nod, not breaking stride for a second.

Porthos relaxes. He's known Athos for so long, fought alongside him so often, that they hardly need to speak to know what each of them is thinking. He knows Athos will stall for time, will get the message to d'Artagnan and Aramis that he lives still and that when the time is right, when Porthos is ready to swoop in, guns and swords drawn, Athos will make sure they are ready for him.

He lets his eyes fall closed briefly. In his mind, unbidden, he relives the moment he knew he was going to be hit. He can see himself rise to his feet, unable to stand the tension any longer, needing to know Aramis is still with them. He can't remember what he said – shouted – to his brother in arms, he doesn't think it's important anyway. The only thing that mattered to him in that moment was Aramis' face, his eyes locking on his friend.

Porthos raises an arm and wipes it across his face, dislodging midges that have settled there in the rapidly encroaching twilight. There'll be bites to contend with in the morning but their discomfort pales into insignificance when he pulls on the wound in his side.

He should, he reflects, be doing something about it. Athos is long gone and he can faintly hear voices floating up from the courtyard below. He thinks he can hear d'Artagnan's indignant tones mixed in with Athos and another voice he doesn't know. He strains to hear Aramis but, try as he might, he cannot sense anything.

He lifts his head to examine his wound as best he can. The bleeding has slowed to a sluggish drop from time to time and, if he concentrates really hard, he can feel the skin tightening around the graze. A few more minutes, he thinks, and he'll be good to go.

Which is a few minutes too long and Porthos has never been renowned for his patience where someone's life is in danger. He raises himself to a sitting position, wincing openly, knowing nobody's here to see his discomfort. He blinks a few times, beating down the nagging pain, pushing it to the back of his consciousness in order to focus on the courtyard below.

If he crawls on his belly – not a good idea but needs must – he thinks he'll be able to get a better view of the scene below. He pulls his jacket closed, covering his injury as best he can and shuffles as far forward as he dares.

In the fading light, he can't see expressions on his comrades' faces but their posture is unmistakable. Athos is standing, feet astride, at the end of the courtyard, his hands resting at his side. To all intents and purposes he's relaxed but Porthos knows that look, knows the man behind it and is absurdly glad he's on his side. Porthos can't tell from this distance, but he thinks Athos is talking, he can see the way he has his head tilted to one side and the way his fingers flutter from time to time as though to emphasise his point.

Probably, Porthos guesses, Athos is directing his words at d'Artagnan who is, true to nature, not taking kindly to being held against his will. Porthos can see the ropes digging into the youngster's wrists, secured at his back. He smiles wryly as he watches d'Artagnan struggle regardless against his bonds and the man who has taken hold of his shoulders in a vain attempt to still the boy.

But his smile drops as soon as he takes in Aramis' stance. Even without seeing his face, Porthos knows Aramis has been defeated, crushed in spirit and possibly in body. His shoulders are slumped and he's paying no attention to his rescuers. To an onlooker he seems oblivious even to their presence. The hulk of a man behind him has a hand fisted in the back of his jacket, preventing him from moving but Porthos thinks it's probably the only thing keeping his friend upright. Take away that support, Porthos muses, and Aramis would be flat on the ground.

He shuffles back again, out of sight, to consider his options. Athos clearly has command of the situation and he knows Porthos is biding his time but whether he'll be able to get the message across to d'Artagnan is looking unlikely. As for Aramis…

The injury nestling below Porthos' ribs nudges at his consciousness, reminding him of the attention he should be paying it. He absently rubs it with his hand, nodding to himself when his hand comes away sticky with cloying blood but no more freely flowing blood. In his head he can hear Aramis, the ever-consummate doctor berating him, telling him to rest and recuperate before doing anything stupid and he silently offers apologies, knowing that's just not an option at the moment. He'll rest and recuperate when there's time, when Aramis is beside him to administer his own unique brand of first aid.

Porthos makes his decision and sits back to guard over his friends and wait for nightfall to implement his plan.


	5. Chapter 5

**Title**: A Restlessness in Common  
**Author**: JenF  
**Chapters**: 5 of ?  
**Disclaimer**: I do not own the The Three Musketeers, D'Artagnan, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun.

* * *

Athos hears the voice calling to him from below, demanding his attention. The words _d'Artagnan has graciously accepted our invitation _echo round his head. He's looking right at the boy and he can see exactly how gracious he's being about the whole affair.

d'Artagnan has become a part of their company so quickly, so thoroughly, that Athos instinctively knows what his protégé is considering. He shakes his head at d'Artagnan, hoping he is as in tune with Athos' thoughts as Athos is with his. Relief floods through the musketeer as he watches d'Artagnan drop his shoulders and allow himself to be restrained and led away by his captor. The Gascon has, at least, a chance of walking away from this.

He really has no choice now. Athos will never abandon a fallen comrade, he doesn't know how. He saw Porthos fall, felt his heart lurch and drop, his blood running cold as Porthos' body dropped to the dusty ground and saw the twitch of his fellow soldier's foot. Somewhere along the line, Athos has developed certain skills of his own. His naturally reticent nature lends itself perfectly to this situation. His face remains impassive, giving nothing away but in his heart he feels relief, an absurd, joyous relief, that Porthos is, relatively, unharmed.

He casts a final look in d'Artagnan's direction before making his way down to the courtyard, to his stricken comrade, passing Porthos and briefly, so briefly, acknowledging the soldier on the ground. He knows Porthos will not let them down and in the meantime he will do everything in his power to keep Aramis, d'Artagnan and himself alive long enough for Porthos to get help.

Not that Porthos will go down that route, he muses ruefully. Neither would he, Athos supposes, if the positions were reversed. None of them would.

He reaches the courtyard to be greeted by a man he vaguely recognises. He's not surprised to find himself relieved of all weaponry, standard procedure after all. He is surprised, however, to discover he's not considered enough of a threat to have his hands bound like d'Artagnan or Aramis.

d'Artagnan has beaten him to the courtyard and, by the time Athos has done a surreptitious reconnaissance of their surroundings, their newest recruit is in full flow, language that would make a sailor blush. Athos is secretly impressed with the range of profanities falling with such ease from d'Artagnan's mouth. He's sure d'Artagnan didn't learn those words at his mother's knee. Only the threat of a gag subdues the flow until d'Artagnan falls into a resentful silence.

Finally Athos manages to get a good look at Aramis. The sight isn't pretty but Athos isn't one to be deceived by appearances. He knows head wounds produce an impressive amount of blood. He knows Aramis has a hard head and that bruises heal quickly. But he also knows Aramis isn't wont to sit passively on his knees, isn't one to allow his friends and comrades come to harm in his presence if he can do anything about it, isn't one to let events wash over him.

But that's exactly what he is doing and that's what worries Athos more than the bruises and scrapes and dried blood on Aramis' face. Aramis isn't really there, not in spirit. Athos doesn't know where he is right now – Savoy maybe, back in his mother's arms - his face is completely blank and he's giving nothing away. He could be somewhere safe or somewhere horrifying, Athos can't tell. The older musketeer doesn't think he's ever been so scared by a look and he's seen many, many looks over the years.

He tears his eyes away from Aramis, glances briefly at d'Artagnan and wonders what Porthos is up to right now. He hopes he's taking the time to recuperate as best he can but he knows Porthos too well. The man would give his life for any one of them in an instant but there's always been a closeness between him and Aramis that Athos doesn't quite understand but has never questioned. To threaten one of them is to threaten both of them.

The evening air is turning cooler but the chill that runs down Athos' spine isn't caused by the weather. It's Aramis' lifeless words that are so quiet Athos isn't even sure he's spoken.

"You shouldn't have come."

Athos turns slowly to face Aramis again, oblivious to the company they are in. In his periphery vision he can see d'Artagnan gearing up to protest this statement but he gets in there first.

"Why would we not?" he questions, truly baffled by Aramis' declaration. He knows the code they live by, spoken or unspoken.

And finally, _finally_, Aramis looks directly at Athos and Athos can't hide his feelings this time. To see his brother in arms so broken, so desolate, is heartbreaking and terrifying.

"My life is not worth his," Aramis whispers and it's clear of whom he is speaking. "My life is not worth his," he repeats and drops his head again.

"Aramis…" d'Artagnan begins but Athos holds a hand up to him, stilling any further words that the younger man may have had. He knows the look in Aramis' face – he's seen it before and he had hoped to never see it again. The only words that will get through to Aramis now are reassurances of Porthos' wellbeing but to do so would be to tip their hand. Athos cannot risk that. Porthos is their lifeline now and he will not jeopardise that. He knows, hopes, Aramis will forgive him this deception in time.

"Your life is as worthy as any of ours," Athos assures him, all the while knowing that Aramis is not listening. Aramis is lost in his grief for Porthos, the words _his life is not worth mine_ falling silently from his lips like a litany.

"This is all very touching," comes a voice from behind Athos, "but it's really not why we're here and quite frankly, it's tiresome. Either you shut him up, or we will."


	6. Chapter 6

**Title**: A Restlessness in Common  
**Author**: JenF  
**Chapters**: 6 of ?  
**Disclaimer**: I do not own the The Three Musketeers, D'Artagnan, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun.

* * *

Sometimes, d'Artagnan surprises himself. This is one of those moments, he reflects, as he hears a string of profanities dance out of him. He isn't generally a man who finds it necessary to curse. His mother had heard him once, out in the fields, and had made it known in no uncertain terms that if he wished to live under her roof his mouth had better be civilised and courteous, even to the swine currently trampling his feet to pulp. d'Artagnan never forgot that lesson but now, here, it doesn't seem relevant.

Aramis had looked up briefly as d'Artagnan and his captor entered the courtyard, d'Artagnan with somewhat less grace than usual as he had stumbled through the gateway. Losing the use of his arms to steady him had been an enlightening, and occasionally, painful experience. It was, he'd mused, virtually impossible to fall stylishly with no means of catching oneself. He became a lot better acquainted with the ground on the route down the courtyard than when he'd made his way up there earlier in the day and he knows he has the bruises to prove it.

But his own woes are put brutally into perspective with one glimpse of Aramis' face. d'Artagnan had known there would be injuries on his friend but nothing had really prepared him for the reality. Aramis' face is filthy but the dirt can't hide the bruises and half healed cuts. d'Artagnan feels his own stomach hit the ground and he comes to an abrupt halt, causing the man behind him to stride into him resulting in both men lurching to an ungainly stop.

He wonders briefly if he's going to throw up. He's seen his friends, his fellow soldiers, battered and bruised before but always in the call of duty. This though, this is senseless brutality for the sake of it. Aramis has done nothing to deserve this treatment. d'Artagnan doesn't even know why they're here – it never seemed important. The fact that one of their number needs him is enough. He's aware he's still new to the party, he knows they all have secrets that they guard closely, but he also knows all three of them hold honour dear to their hearts, Aramis above all.

Aramis won't meet his eye and the only thing that cuts short d'Artagnan's tirade is the arrival of Athos, calm confidence oozing from every pore. d'Artagnan isn't sure how to feel about Athos' composure. He can't understand why the older soldier is so still, why he isn't fighting, swords or muskets or daggers or anything, drawn. Maybe in years to come, when he has the experience of command he'll understand, he thinks later, but in this moment, d'Artagnan wants to fight for Aramis and for Athos, to avenge Porthos.

Athos' arrival allows a modicum of relief to creep into d'Artagnan's consciousness. The older musketeer knows exactly how to handle the situation with calming words bordering on, but never quite becoming, platitudes to their captors. There's a bit of a conversation between him and one of their adversaries but d'Artagnan doesn't hear much of it through the buzzing in his ears. He catches a name or two and manages to pay enough attention to work out the man behind him is Thibaud and the main protagonist is named Descarte. Neither name means anything to d'Artagnan but, glancing at Athos, he sees the older man stiffen ever so slightly, his game face slipping for a brief second. d'Artagnan thinks he should probably worry about that.

Then Aramis shifts slightly on his knees. "You shouldn't have come," he whispers and d'Artagnan isn't sure who he's talking to. It's more than possible Aramis is unaware of his surroundings and d'Artagnan opens his mouth to reassure his friend but Athos beats him to it.

"Why would we not?" Athos questions and to d'Artagnan is seems as though Athos is truly bewildered, as is he. How could Aramis think this way? What have they done that Aramis himself would not have done for any one of them?

"My life is not worth his."

d'Artagnan cannot stop himself this time, threats from Thibaud or not. He cannot allow Aramis to continue down this slope of self loathing. It's true, Porthos is gone, and d'Artagnan feels disloyal even just thinking it, but for Aramis to believe his life to be worth less than Porthos' is inconceivable.

"Aramis…" he begins, desperate for his friend to hear him, to understand his own value, but Athos stops him with just a hand. It's funny how Athos has such a quiet command over his actions but d'Artagnan cannot, will not, disobey. Not when he sees the look on Athos' face.

"Your life is just as worthy as any of ours," Athos offers reassurance but d'Artagnan can see the look on Descarte's face. He doesn't like the look of it as Aramis seems to shrink in on himself before his very eyes.

"This is all very touching, but it's really not why we're here and quite frankly, it's tiresome. Either you shut him up, or we will."

The menace behind the words is clear. Aramis doesn't seem to care and his monologue continues regardless. d'Artagnan is powerless to help, his attempts to free his hands has been fruitless and with Thibaud breathing down his neck he thinks it unlikely he'd get far in any case.

Athos, on the other hand, is moving instantly to where Aramis is crumbling away. d'Artagnan watches, on edge, waiting for Descarte's men to stop him. Surprise and relief vie for top position when nobody else moves. Athos makes it to Aramis unhindered and lays a hand on his shoulder, looking directly at Descarte.

"You will not touch him again," he growls and d'Artagnan can't help a small smile creep on to his face. He wouldn't want to be in Descarte's shoes right now. He may think he's got the upper hand but Athos is a formidable foe. d'Artagnan feels a grim satisfaction as Aramis looks up and finally falls silent. He's sure it's nothing to do with the threat to his wellbeing and everything to do with the physical comfort Athos is offering.

Descarte shrugs and looks to Thibaud. "I will do what I chose, to whom I chose," he counters with an equal harshness in his voice and d'Artagnan feels his blood run cold as Thibaud slides a dagger out of its sheath, twirling it suggestively in front of his face. He can't see the man's face but he can see Aramis' and Athos' and their expressions leave no doubt as to what Thibaud is implying. Aramis' eyes have gone wide and he's shaking visibly now, Athos' hand no longer seems to be grounding him so well.

Athos takes a step forward, never releasing his hold on Aramis but Thibaud is quicker. The dagger, once merely a plaything, is a cold threat against d'Artagnan's throat and a hand in his hair, tugging his head back, is callous and painful. d'Artagnan freezes and the world slows down.

"Really, Athos?" Descarte queries, and despite his predicament, d'Artagnan can hear amusement in the voice. He wishes he could see Athos but the grip on his hair is fierce. He can feel his scalp lifting to meet the demands of his assailant.

"You've already lost one," Descarte continues and d'Artagnan can only assume he's referring to Porthos, the unwelcome reminder hitting him like a ball of ice. "You would risk another? And for what?"

That, thinks d'Artagnan, is a very good question as he pulls against the hold Thibaud has on him, testing the other man's commitment to this course of action.

Thibaud, it transpires, has a very good hold on d'Artagnan and he doesn't appear to appreciate the boy's actions. He tugs painfully on his hair, pulling d'Artagnan back. The musketeer can't help the sudden intake of breath as he struggles to maintain his footing. The knife at his throat has never felt so real and as he attempts to remain upright, the blade digs into the soft flesh at the base of his neck, drawing blood.

He can feel Thibaud's hot breath on the back of his neck. He can hear Aramis' soft voice chanting, he thinks the man is praying but d'Artagnan's knowledge of the scriptures is limited. He wonders who Aramis is praying for. In the background he can hear Athos' deep voice rumbling through his thoughts.

And then the unexpected happens, taking them all by surprise. A shot rings out from somewhere above them and Thibaud stumbles backwards, dragging d'Artagnan with him. The grip on his hair loosens but Thibaud's fingers are tangled in d'Artagnan's long locks and as the man collapses, d'Artagnan feels himself pulled downwards, unable to save himself from the fall. The knife falls harmlessly to the ground. d'Artagnan tries to twist around, to cushion his landing but he is hindered by Thibaud's dying grip and as the man gurgles his last in d'Artagnan's ear, the young Gascon feels his head land on the unforgiving ground with a sickening crack.

As the world slips out of focus, d'Artagnan vaguely wonders where the shot came from.


	7. Chapter 7

**Title**: A Restlessness in Common  
**Author**: JenF  
**Chapters**: 7 of ?  
**Disclaimer**: I do not own the The Three Musketeers, D'Artagnan, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun.

* * *

At any other time, in any other circumstances, Aramis would be grinning right now. d'Artagnan has grown in oh so many ways since he burst into their lives but the current display of language is so clearly expressed Aramis has no doubt the younger man has had years to perfect its delivery.

But it's hard to smile when your soul is empty and all you long for is a quick death to relieve the guilt and remorse tearing you apart. So he lets his mind wander, desperate to avoid replaying the last half an hour of his life. Porthos would berate him soundly, he reflects and thoughts of his dearest friend bring him small comfort. He allows his eyes to close and lets his mind close in on itself.

In the background he can hear d'Artagnan continue his diatribe against their captors. Thibaud, Aramis knows, will take no notice, but Descarte? He's another matter altogether. Aramis has known him for less than a week but a man as perceptive as the musketeer needs only a few minutes to truly know a man's real nature. It is, he muses ruefully, a gift.

He knows he should try to stop d'Artagnan but, try as he might, he cannot find it within him to speak up. Maybe, he ponders, he's finally lost the ability to talk. Maybe he's already dead but his mind hasn't caught up yet. Descarte will kill them all, he realises. He's doing the boy a favour really, he reasons, allowing him passage to a quick death rather than the tortuous hell he's been in for the last few days.

d'Artagnan falls silent and Aramis furrows his brow, regretting it almost instantly as old cuts on his forehead protest the movement by sending shards of pain into his skull. He can hear footsteps crunching on the dusty ground, solid and confident. He listens to a drone of words from a voice he's known forever. He can't decide whether this is a good thing or not. Part of him knows, has always known, that he can't give up now. He can give up on himself, but never on d'Artagnan or Athos. How can he make them see that their sacrifice is too much?

"You shouldn't have come," he whispers, not sure who his words are aimed at, if anyone. Part of him wants Athos to scoop d'Artagnan up and run, to leave him here to suffer the consequences alone. He shakes his head to stop the downward spiral of despair, desperate to get his point across to his brothers-in-arms.

"Why would we not?" Athos's gentle words pierce the haze clustering around Aramis' thoughts and Aramis can't understand the confusion underlying the question.

"My life is not worth his," he mutters, and now he's said it, it seems more real. It _has_ happened, he can't pretend he's imagining this all any more. Porthos is gone, his life given for Aramis' and Aramis doesn't believe he will ever be able to live with that knowledge, that responsibility.

"Aramis…" d'Artagnan begins before Athos interrupts with the assured confidence of experience and birthright.

"Your life is just as worthy as any of ours," Athos tells him.

But Aramis will not, cannot, believe him. How can Athos tells these lies when a man such as Porthos lies dead because of him? He doesn't understand why Athos, and d'Artagnan, don't hate him. In their position, he reflects, if they had been the cause of Porthos' death he would never be able to forgive them, let alone treat them with the compassion and respect currently radiating from these musketeers. He doesn't know how to make them understand.

"My life is not worth his," he repeats and then it's as if a damn has burst and he cannot stop. "My life is not worth his. My life is not worth his," over and over again, his voice fading until it becomes his world.

"This is all very touching." a voice cuts through his mantra, "But it's really not why we're here and quite frankly, it's tiresome. Either you shut him up, or we will."

Aramis doesn't hear, doesn't care what happens now. His refrain continues to fall from his mouth without any effort on his part. Somewhere in the back of his mind he recognises this is probably the start of a breakdown and he should probably be fighting it. But the time for fighting has been and gone. There's nothing left worth fighting for.

And then there's a weight on his shoulder, warm and comforting, demanding his attention. Fingers curl gently into his flesh, like so often recently yet so different – caring, not cruel.

"You will not touch him again," Athos snarls and Aramis hears the determination in the words. For a few moments he allows himself a little hope. The words he's been clinging to fade into nothing and he leans into the touch, taking what warmth he can.

Athos' threat seems to have fallen on deaf ears though and Aramis freezes as he hears Descarte decree. "I will do what I chose, to whom I chose."

Aramis looks up, and it's more than he can take. d'Artagnan is as still as a statue and Thibaud is spinning a dagger around carelessly in front of his face. Aramis knows what the man can do with that knife and the memory of it slicing into his arms while he lay helpless among the filth of the makeshift dungeon with only the rats for company is too much for him. He cannot bear for another to suffer and his mind takes the only course of action left to it.

He is no longer in control of his body. He can still feel the hand on his shoulder and he thinks the grip has tightened but he's not sure. He's not sure of anything any more. Athos has to go to d'Artagnan, he reasons. He _has_ to. But the thought of losing what little contact he has with the real world shakes him to the core. His muscles are quivering and he can't stop the shaking in his limbs. He feels Athos take a step forward and he resigns himself to being left alone again to face what may come.

But the weight of Athos' hand remains steadfast. He feels the vibrations running down Athos' arm as Descarte scoffs, "Really, Athos? You've already lost one. You would risk another? And for what?"

Aramis' world is contracting very quickly and effectively. His vision is blurring, and he falls back on the one thing he has always relied on. His faith.

The prayer falls easily from his lips, Latin learned at the seminary as a child springing forth like second nature. _Most merciful Lord Jesus! by Thine agony and bloody sweat, and by Thy death, deliver me, I beseech Thee, from a sudden and unprovided death_.

But his prayers are interrupted by the unthinkable. A shot rings out and Aramis' head shoots up from his supplication. He watches, hardly breathing, as Thibaud falls backwards, dragging d'Artagnan down with him. The world slows down and he scans the walls of the courtyard, years of instinct taking over, subduing the fear and panic he's been subjected to. The medic and soldier in him wants to go to d'Artagnan another part of him wants to know where this saviour has come from.

Porthos, he thinks. It must be Porthos. Hope soars in his heart like a dove and for the first time he allows himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, there's a way out of this after all.

Descarte, it would appear, isn't happy. His movements are quicker than Athos and as the older musketeer pushes Aramis down so he is less of a target, Descarte is over the boy, his own musket out, head spinning, surveying the surroundings.

We're looking for the same thing, Aramis realises from his position on the ground. He finds the time to wish Athos had been a little more gentle but then he supposes the older man isn't aware of quite how bad a host Descarte has been. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a flash of metal and a mop of dark curls appear briefly above an outcrop of rocks before disappearing so quickly it has him wondering if he saw it at all.

But it's all he needs to see. He would know that silhouette anywhere and it gives him the boost he needs. He catches Athos' eye and gives him a slight nod that he hopes says it all. _I'm back. I'm okay. You can rely on me._

Which is just as well, because they are still hideously outnumbered and with d'Artagnan out cold and his own hands still tightly bound, Athos is effectively on his own down here.


	8. Chapter 8

**Title**: A Restlessness in Common  
**Author**: JenF  
**Chapters**: 8 of ?  
**Disclaimer**: I do not own the The Three Musketeers, D'Artagnan, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun.

* * *

Porthos has never been good at waiting when his friends' safety is in question. He may have the patience of a saint in a card game but put him in front of a real life, honest to goodness, matter of life or death situation, then the first thing he loses is his patience.

Lying on his back, watching the sun set gracefully and slowly over the horizon, he shivers. In the back of his mind he knows he should be paying more attention to his own condition but with the lives of his three dearest friends on the line a momentary chill is nothing. He may, he realises, regret this decision later but as long as there is a later he can live with that.

He absently lets his hand rest on his ribs, pressing down gently over the bullet wound there. The blood has dried and the waves of pain have receded from agonizing spikes to a gentle throb, reminding him how easily he could reopen the wound if he's not careful. He lets his fingers wander inside his shirt, probing the skin around the clotted blood. It feels hot to the touch, hotter than the rest of his torso and he knows he should worry about that. On reflection, he decides, maybe crawling along the dusty ground hadn't been one of his better ideas.

He closes his eyes briefly, allowing his other senses to take over. He can smell the heavy scent of honeysuckle and if he concentrates really hard he can just make out the unmistakable aroma of a stable in desperate need of mucking out. The breeze is gentle on his face and he can almost feel the daylight receding. He can hear the evening symphony created by the crickets and birds in harmony and wonders if it's like this every night or whether he's being treated to a special performance.

And then, as his hearing sharpens to new levels he can make out not just voices, but words floating up from the courtyard below.

"… very touching …"

"… shut him up …"

"… really, Athos …"

Porthos frowns, the disjointed words making little sense on their own but uniting in his head to form a picture more complete than he needs of the action playing out below him. Shaking his head, regretting the movement when a headache nags him, reminding him he's not in full health himself right now, he hauls himself to a sitting position, opening his eyes again to the world around him.

"This is going to hurt," he mutters to himself, protectively bringing an arm across his chest. He wonders if he can regain his original position without sliding along the ground this time. He rises to his knees, casts an eye around to satisfy himself that no one has gained an advantage on him before finishing the manoeuver, rocking up on to his heels.

Moving as swiftly as the pain in his side will allow, he shuffles to an outcrop of rocks, conveniently looking over the courtyard. A little voice at the back of his head is suggesting that maybe he should have made this his hideout previously but he squashes the thought quickly. There's no point thinking _what if_ now. He's done what he's done and now he's got to make the best of it.

Straightening up as far as he dares, Porthos bites his lower lip to stave off the constant nagging pain from his side. His breath falters as he takes in the tableau below him. Athos has made it to Aramis' side and Porthos can't quite describe the relief he feels to see a solid hand on his friend's shoulder. He's known Aramis hasn't been alone but to actually see it with his own eyes eases a burden from his heart he didn't realise he'd been carrying. He finds himself nodding in satisfaction and allows himself a moment of amusement, wondering where the action came from.

d'Artagnan, however, doesn't appear to be faring so well. Athos seems to be making a declaration of leadership and Porthos doesn't know how he knows, but he senses there's a history between Athos and their antagonists. d'Artagnan has a dagger at his throat and the man behind him has a cold smile on his face.

Porthos' world stops. He can't tear his eyes away from the man behind d'Artagnan. Porthos learnt many things growing up in the Court, some good, some not so good, and the lessons have stayed with him for all this time. One of the skills he's picked up is the ability to read a man's face. He can't hear the conversation below but he can see the expression on the face behind d'Artagnan. He can see the muscles in his knife hand twitch and he knows the instant the man has made the decision to slice d'Artagnan's throat like a butcher slaughtering a lamb.

Looking back, Porthos can't remember the moment his musket was in position. He doesn't remember loading it but he supposes that's another throw back to his slightly unsavoury upbringing – never have an unloaded weapon in a dangerous situation, whether the danger is personal or not. He does remember shooting though. He remembers the retort of his weapon echoing in his ear, remembers the pull against his shoulder, sending shock waves down his arm and chest, remembers the sharp protest from his wound as he knows he's reopened his injury. And he remembers how the man behind d'Artagnan falls, dead the second he decided to pull the trigger.

He ducks back down behind his shelter of rock, cursing inwardly as he slowly thinks through the ramifications of his actions. There was, he considers, no alternative. Athos and Aramis were in no position to help the boy and there was no way he could have let him come to harm. Okay, so he's shown his hand now, nobody will believe he's dead any more. They're probably on their way to find him right now. And that, he thinks, isn't going to help anyone.

He sighs deeply, wondering what Athos is thinking at the moment. Hopefully, he's busy looking out for Aramis and d'Artagnan. Porthos groans quietly as he slips his hand over his ribs, only for it to come away covered in fresh blood, bright red and hot. What he needs, he decides, is a doctor, someone to stitch him up. But that would mean abandoning his brothers in arms and that is something that he cannot and will not ever do.

So, in the absence of a doctor, he needs a plan. Athos is the cool headed one of their band, Aramis the sweet talker and d'Artagnan the hot head of their group. Porthos isn't used to having to make these decisions but there's a time for thinking and a time for action. He counted at least a dozen men in the courtyard and he knows he can't tackle them alone but maybe, just maybe, if he can get to Athos, if they can free Aramis, if d'Artagnan isn't hurt too badly, then maybe they have a chance.


	9. Chapter 9

**Title**: A Restlessness in Common  
**Author**: JenF  
**Chapters**: 9 of ?  
**Disclaimer**: I do not own the The Three Musketeers, D'Artagnan, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun.

* * *

Athos pushes Aramis to the ground without even thinking about it. On reflection, he could have been a little more gentle about it, but when shots are fired and his men are unarmed his priority is to protect them, not to cosset them. He spares his comrade a quick glance, relieved to see a hint of life returning to his eyes.

Descarte is standing over d'Artagnan, his weapon drawn and Athos has a sense of déjà vu. He still can't place where he knows the man from but he thinks it's in the distant past rather than a recent encounter. None of his brothers-in-arms have recognised Descarte so his logic would appear to be holding strong at least.

Descarte turns to his men, and Athos has counted seven in the courtyard and a further four at various vantage points around the decrepit buildings surrounding them. He barks an order out and the musketeer stiffens. The man has just signed Porthos' death warrant, sending out a search party to find Thibaud's killer. Porthos, Athos knows, is wounded and likely to have aggravated his injury. Athos needs to divert Descarte; he needs to give Porthos as much of a chance as he can.

"What do you hope to gain from this?" he demands, cutting Descarte off mid speech, but too late to halt the hunt for Porthos. He feels Aramis hesitantly rise to his knees and is grateful for the moral support, comforted that his friend has enough life in him to offer that much.

Descarte doesn't move, his musket still pointing steadily at the fallen Gascon at his feet. He gives the boy a none too gentle nudge with his foot and d'Artagnan groans but doesn't regain consciousness.

"You really don't remember, do you?" Descarte moves his attention away from d'Artagnan and looks over to Athos. "After everything you did to my family, you just walked away and wiped us from your memory." He looks down at d'Artagnan again, drops to his haunches and tenderly – too tenderly for Athos' liking – brushes a stray lock of hair off the boy's face. "You took everything from me," he murmurs and Athos wonders if he's forgotten his audience. "You took everything from me and now I am simply repaying the favour."

Athos frowns, genuinely puzzled. He cannot recall the man in front of him although there is a familiarity about his features he cannot place. He doesn't like the way he's looking at d'Artagnan, the way he has let his hand come to rest on top of his head, the way he's still holding a gun way too close for comfort.

Descarte stands, abruptly, and looks Athos directly in the eye. Athos tries to suppress the shiver that inexplicably runs down his spine but he knows Aramis has seen it and can feel him trying to rise to his feet. He places a restraining hand on Aramis' shoulder, ignores the tremors coursing through the younger soldier and keeps him in his place.

If he were Aramis, he reflects, he would be full of questions. After all, the man has borne the consequences of his actions towards Descarte, whatever they may be. If anyone has the right to understand the situation, it's Aramis. He wishes he had an explanation to give him but the answers to his own questions are hanging around the edges of his mind, elusive and frustrating.

Athos watches warily as Descarte advances on him, staring directly at Athos, eyes never once wavering. He stops when he's mere inches away and bends forward at the waist, invading the musketeer's personal space in a way that Athos assumes he means to be intimidating but is actually just irritating.

"You took my freedom," he spits and it takes all of Athos' control not to wipe the spittle off his face. "You killed my brother. You ruined my life. And you remember none of it!"

Athos closes his eyes briefly, the face before him invading every corner of his mind, opening doors he had thought long closed. The realisation of who Descarte is hits him like a sledgehammer. He has attempted to block that period of his life so thoroughly with wine and spirits and now it seems it was all to no avail.

"I did your brother no harm," he states, assertively but gently. "I had no quarrel with him; he was a man of God. I'm sorry that he is dead," and he is, he would not wish the priest's life on anyone. "I do not know your story but for whatever it is that I did, I apologise."

Descarte shakes his head and points his musket at Aramis, stepping forward so the barrel of the gun is pressed to the side of his head. Aramis lets out a suppressed moan and Athos feels him sway to one side.

"You do not know my story because you did not stay long enough to find out. You didn't care enough for your people, _Comte_." His words are tinged with anger and grief and for a brief moment Athos can understand the man's wrath toward him. But as far as Athos is concerned, Descarte lost the right to be a figure for sympathy the minute he took Aramis, four days ago. His chances of redemption in the soldier's eyes are fading by the minute with every harm he does to Aramis or d'Artagnan.

Athos takes a deep breath, aware that Descarte's men are probably not far off finding Porthos. He tightens his hold on Aramis, unknowingly taking strength from the warmth and solidity of his friend. He takes solace in Aramis' response as the younger man leans into his grip, silently signaling that whatever secrets Athos and Descarte share, he will wait for Athos to share.

"I am willing to make amends for your personal grievances," he begins, "if you will only be more precise. I did not kill your brother and I did not take your liberty from you but if you will disclose how you believe I have wronged you…" He tails off, hoping Descarte can hear the sincerity in his tone.

But whatever Descarte is going to say is stalled in its infancy by d'Artagnan's pain filled groan as the boy slowly comes to his senses. Athos takes the opportunity to look at Aramis, locking eyes with him. He's reassured and gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze. Aramis seems more focused and determined than when they first found him but Athos is under no illusions that there is some way to go before he can rely on his fellow soldier completely; the last four days have clearly taken their toll on Aramis.

Descarte jerks his gun away from Aramis' head with a sharp motion, the barrel scraping along his cheekbone, leaving an angry welt in its wake. Their antagonist doesn't seem to care as he turns back to where d'Artagnan lies, curling in on himself in pain.

"Take them inside," he orders his remaining men before turning back to Athos. "I will find whoever killed Thibaud," he promises. "And I will have justice for all you have done."


	10. Chapter 10

**Title**: A Restlessness in Common  
**Author**: JenF  
**Chapters**: 10 of ?  
**Disclaimer**: I do not own the The Three Musketeers, D'Artagnan, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun.

* * *

The first thing d'Artagnan notices when he finally prises his eyes open is the drummer who appears to have taken up residence at the back of his skull and is currently beating a marching rhythm. His first reaction is to close his eyes again as the involuntary groan he makes threatens to set the drummer off on an encore. His second action is to bring his hands up to his head to alleviate the pain.

Which is when he realises he's still bound as tightly as ever. As his memory returns in a rush of images and emotions, his stomach rebels. He can't remember the last time he threw up in public, possibly because it had been due to alcohol which he still can't handle like his comrades, or possibly because he'd only been a small child. Either way, he decides, he's about to do it again.

As his stomach heaves, d'Artagnan becomes aware of a shadow passing over him. It's definitely man shaped and he thinks he ought to be concerned at the way it stops by his side but the combined forces of his head and stomach have left him little capacity for worrying about anything else at the moment. He can hear voices but his still muddled brain makes little sense of anything.

But when a hand clamps itself around his ankle, he's all vigilance and he's vaguely surprised how quickly he can snap himself back into soldier mode despite his physical frailties right now. He kicks out instinctively and allows himself a grim smile as his booted foot makes contact with a solid object which gives slightly under the force of the impact. Somebody's leg, he thinks with satisfaction.

It's a short lived victory though as the same leg replies with equal force, catching him below the ribs with a brutality he wasn't really expecting but, on reflection, should have known was coming. He coughs violently and his stomach reminds him how unready he is for this sort of activity. Somewhere in the haze floating around his mind he can hear someone shouting, possibly Athos, possibly Aramis. Whoever it is, they sound angry which, d'Artagnan reasons, could be a good thing or could signify something altogether different. He really wishes the drummer in his head would allow him some space to think.

When the hand grabs his ankle again, he lets himself go limp. Going on the attack did him no favours so this time he'll submit. It will, he thinks, at least give him a chance to recover. His captor, or an accomplice, takes hold of his other ankle and he's flipped back onto his stomach where his face reacquaints itself with the dusty and rough ground. As he's dragged across the courtyard he tries to lift his head enough to preserve some of the skin on his cheeks and forehead. He thinks it's working but he just can't get his chin high enough to prevent some nasty contact with the pebbles and rock littering the earth.

As his head makes intermittent contact with the ground, d'Artagnan finds his attention drifting. The drummer is still in his head but he's beating a retreat now and d'Artagnan's concentration seems to be on its way back from its sojourn. Somewhere along the line, the dusty ground has become solid brick and straw is scattered about sporadically. Abruptly he feels his legs dropped and he doesn't quite have time to slow their impact with the hard brick. He will, he muses, feel those bruises on his shins for some time to come.

He lies quietly for a few minutes, getting his bearings as best he can without moving. He can't hear any other voices which is disturbing; if he's been moved out of the courtyard, where are Athos and Aramis? Surely they've been moved too. He takes a hesitant breath, experimenting with how deep he can inhale before his ribs, and head, raise too much of a protest. Relieved, he discovers he can fill his lungs to near capacity before a sharp remonstration from his torso prevents any further experimentation.

Several deep breaths later, d'Artagnan is still surrounded by silence. Maybe, he thinks, Athos and Aramis are with him but unable to speak for some reason. After all, he surmises, he was unconscious himself – it's not unfathomable that the same fate befell his friends. There is, he decides, only one way to find out.

He steels himself for the discomfort he knows is about to come and slowly rolls over on to his back. The exertion is more than he was expecting and he takes a moment to catch his breath and let the drummer fade back to a gentle tapping. He takes the opportunity to study the ceiling above him. The rafters are old and rotting away. In places d'Artagnan can see the sky peeking through holes, the stars affording him a little light over and above the fading dusk.

Hauling himself to a sitting position, d'Artagnan grimaces as his ribs protest and his shoulders take the time to remind him that they too would really appreciate a little freedom. He is, as he thought, in the abandoned stables and he is quite, quite alone.

He sighs and leans back against the wall of the stall into which he's been carelessly tossed. Maybe, he thinks, he's not as important as Athos or Aramis. He's surprised by the pang of insecurity that shoots through him. Although, he muses, this might be to his advantage. If he's not important, maybe Descarte will forget about him. But as he tests the ropes for the countless time, it appears his luck just isn't with him today. Destiny, it appears, has decided d'Artagnan needs company and conversation after all.

d'Artagnan freezes as he hears the old stable doors swing back, creaking and groaning with years of neglect. He shrinks as far back into the shadows as he can but Descarte's footsteps are sure and swift. Within seconds he's standing over the Gascon, a lighted torch in one hand and a dagger glinting in the other.

"Do you know why you're here, boy?" the older man asks, his tone soft and curious. For a moment d'Artagnan can almost imagine him to be concerned for his welfare. He raises his eyes to the man and wishes instantly he hadn't. Descarte's tone of voice does not match his face and d'Artagnan's breath catches in his throat. He has seen wickedness and evil many times but never so concentrated in one man.

Descarte smiles, cold and void of all emotion. "Well?" he asks. "Has Athos never spoken of me?"

d'Artagnan shakes his head, unable to tear his eyes away from Descarte's mouth, watching with fearful fascination as the man's pale lips move, creasing the skin around his cheeks, creating dimples where they have no business being.

"I'm disappointed," Descarte continues, moving nearer to d'Artagnan. He stretches out the arm holding the torch and d'Artagnan can't help flinching. Descarte spots the movement and laughs softly as he places the flaming beacon in a holder on the wall. "But not surprised," he finishes, squatting down by d'Artagnan's head. d'Artagnan can't help himself and tries to shuffle backwards, away from the man he's come to hate without knowing why.

Descarte, it turns out, has lightening moves and he reaches out, grabbing d'Artagnan by the upper arm, stilling any further movement the boy might attempt. His grip is far tighter than necessary and d'Artagnan can feel the bruises forming already.

"Let go of me," he hisses, stronger than he feels.

"Do you know where your friends are now?" Descarte continues, ignoring the way d'Artagnan tries to pull away from him. "They're still out there," he nods toward the door to the courtyard. "Athos and your other friend, the would be priest." He stops and looks at d'Artagnan as though he's just said something of great significance but whatever it was, d'Artagnan has no idea. He wonders if he should be showing some sort of reaction or not.

"Why?" d'Artagnan ventures when it appears Descarte is disinclined to say anything else. "Why Aramis? Why take him?"

Descarte laughs and removes his grip from d'Artagnan's arm. He gives the Gascon a gentle, pseudo friendly tap on the face. "Why indeed," he smiles. "Ask Athos."

"I would," d'Artagnan states calmly, "but in case you've failed to notice, I'm in here and he's out there. Hardly conducive circumstances for a conversation."

"No matter." Descarte dismisses the topic of conversation in a way that leaves d'Artagnan confused and unsettled. "Get up."

d'Artagnan tilts his head at his oppressor. He knows that were Athos with him, he would be telling him to comply, that there's a time to conserve energy and a time to expend it. So he follows his internal mentor and struggles to pull himself upright, using the wall at his back to help.

Except it doesn't help and Descarte is not a patient man. By the time d'Artagnan has tried, and failed, twice he lets out a menacing huff and grabs the musketeer roughly by the arms, pulling him to a standing position.

"Don't fool with me, child," he warns and d'Artagnan raises his eyebrows incredulously at being called a child. He opens his mouth to protest the endearment but Descarte is already hauling him across the stable to the stall opposite. It suddenly occurs to d'Artagnan that the man intends to chain him to the wall, probably for the night, possibly longer. It's undignified and something in d'Artagnan's mind snaps at being treated like an animal.

He stops dead in his tracks, causing Descarte to miss his footing slightly.

"I'm not a child," he hisses, "and I'm not an animal."

Descarte whirls around, fury written across his face and d'Artagnan recoils as the man spins him round, slamming him up against the wall, head bouncing off the wooden surface. Descarte raises his hand as though to backhand the Gascon but at the last minute he stops, instead leaning into d'Artagnan's personal space.

"You are what I say you are," he whispers, far too close for d'Artagnan's liking, "so don't you forget it." The threatened slap becomes a gentle, unwelcome caress on d'Artagnan's face.

"Men have died for less."


	11. Chapter 11

**Title**: A Restlessness in Common  
**Author**: JenF  
**Chapters**: 11 of ?  
**Disclaimer**: I do not own the The Three Musketeers, D'Artagnan, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun.

* * *

Aramis thought he had a handle on what was going on. He had been kidnapped and beaten. Neither deed is new to the musketeer but he generally likes to know what he's done to deserve such treatment. Now he understands it to have been an act of brutality with the sole purpose of luring Athos to Descarte's hideout. He listens to the exchange between the two men, keeping half an eye on d'Artagnan where he still lies motionless, wishing he could make sense of the conversation.

He knows Athos to be a man with a dark past, a past which has, on occasion, reared its ugly head with unfortunate consequences, but he's never enquired more of the older man than he has been willing to divulge to his comrades. Every man, he reasons, has a past and some are best left behind where they belong. He, himself, has a few secrets that he thinks will one day cause unforetold wretchedness to himself or his friends.

He tries to ignore the gun on his face although it's nothing new to him. The cold metal against his skins is almost a relief to him. His sense of self-preservation has never been very strong when those he loves are threatened and d'Artagnan has wormed his way very securely into that category in a surprisingly short space of time. If the gun is on him, he reasons, d'Artagnan is safe for the moment, Athos is safe for the moment and in his heart he prays fervently that Porthos is safe for the moment although the dispatch of a search party has set his heart beating faster than he is comfortable with.

As he watches the youngest member of their quartet slowly come back to the here and now, he winces in sympathy as the boy groans and rolls sideways, emptying the contents of his stomach on the bone dry ground. That, Aramis diagnoses from a distance, is surely a concussion. The conversation between Athos and Descarte comes to an abrupt end and as Descarte drags the pistol viciously from his face, Aramis feels pain more for the potential threat it now poses to his friends than the harsh sting lancing across his cheek.

He watches with growing resentment as Descarte takes his frustrations out on d'Artagnan, feels Athos' hand on his shoulder grounding him just as everything seems to be in danger of floating away again and then, without thinking about it, without even realizing he's doing it, he's shouting a protest over the treatment d'Artagnan is receiving at the hands of the man he's come to despise over the last four days.

It makes no difference and he watches impotently as d'Artagnan is dragged from the yard to one of the disused stables, one Aramis hasn't had the fortune of becoming acquainted with yet. But he will, he promises himself. He will move heaven and earth to restore d'Artagnan's liberty to him.

He feels Athos' hand tighten imperceptibly on his shoulder as Descarte turns back to the pair. Maybe, Aramis thinks, maybe Athos can read his mind and knew he was about to struggle to his feet. He wonders if the older musketeer knows it would have been a futile effort; Aramis doubts he would make it more than three feet at the moment before collapsing again. He directs his energy instead to glaring at their tormentor who has come to a halt mere inches away from Athos' face.

"Are you happy yet?" Descarte growls, eyes flicking briefly from Athos to Aramis and the receding figures of his subordinates – those spreading out to find Porthos and those who have so unceremoniously deprived them of their youngest member.

Aramis feels Athos stiffen and finally remove the security of his hold from Aramis. Still on his knees, Aramis has to strain to hear Athos' reply.

"I am neither happy nor do I understand why you feel compelled to this course of action," he rumbles, not yet angry but neither does Aramis detect any compassion. "You have no reason to hurt my friends. They have caused you no harm nor bear you any ill will."

Aramis has to hold back a snort at that. During his time with Descarte, he has had plenty of opportunity to garner enough ill will toward the man to go around. He doesn't really want to think about it but he expects by now d'Artagnan has accumulated his own ill will and as for Porthos – it doesn't take much to offend the former resident of the Court and Aramis would not wish to be one on the receiving end his friend's wrath.

"But _you_ have caused me much pain and _I_ bear you much ill will," Descarte responds. "Do not tell me you would not seek revenge if you were in my position."

Aramis turns his head to look up at Athos. He takes a moment to reflect on how imposing the older man is, how it takes a brave man to stand up to him. That, he muses, or a very stupid one. He wonders which Descarte is. He hopes for the latter but suspects it's the former from his brief acquaintance. Athos is standing ramrod straight, muscles taut and primed ready for action although what that action might be Aramis is unsure.

He tears his eyes away from Athos and scans the skyline. The sun has faded into nothing and in the dusk the stars are beginning to appear. He can make out the silhouettes of Descarte's men scouring the scrubland for Porthos.

"I would not take your course of action," he hears Athos saying. Squinting into the distance as he wonders with hope in his heart if that particular outline by the outcrop of trees is more familiar than the others, he hears Descarte's laughter and the coldness of it sends a shiver down his spine.

Turning his attention back to the courtyard he is in, he starts, realizing that Descarte has turned from them and is heading to the stable block where he saw d'Artagnan disappear from view. The villain stops mere feet away from the door and glares at Athos one final time.

"My brother was a priest, a man of God. He was my only family." Descarte looks to Aramis and waves his pistol towards the kneeling man. "You have a priest among your chosen companions and a boy you care for more than I wish to understand. I have nothing left." He tilts his head to one side and eyes both musketeers before turning away from them, striding with clear purpose towards the place where d'Artagnan lies hidden from their view. Stopping with one hand on the handle of the door he wheels around on his heel.

"Tell me, how is that fair?" he demands before retreating into the shelter of the stable. "How can I rest until I have had my vengeance?"


	12. Chapter 12

**Title**: A Restlessness in Common  
**Author**: JenF  
**Chapters**: 12 of ?  
**Disclaimer**: I do not own the The Three Musketeers, D'Artagnan, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun.

* * *

Porthos shifts awkwardly on his backside; the waiting is taking its toll on his muscles and his nerves. He knows he's bought some time for his compatriots but he's not stupid enough to think he's solved all their problems. d'Artagnan's life has ben saved for now but if he were the one in charge down there, he'd be furious right now and refusing to let anyone best him.

Maybe, he muses, he has more in common with their adversary than any one of them realises. He listens out for something – he doesn't know what exactly, maybe the sounds of a fight, something to give him hope for his brothers, his friends. He is rewarded by an ominous silence broken only by the breeze whispering in his ear. If he were a man given to romantic inclinations he could almost convince himself of words of reassurance on the gentle gusts of summer air but his life has been far too hard for him to allow himself such frivolities.

His torso is throbbing in time with his heartbeat and he really, really ought to do something about the gently seeping wound. He grits his teeth and cautiously pulls himself to a sitting position. Looking down, he pulls his jacket carefully away from his body. It comes away easily which is a pleasant surprise although all that really means is that his blood is still too fresh to stick to anything. Porthos supposes he should be grateful for small mercies.

He pulls off the scarf wrapped around his head and balls it up, intending to use it to staunch the drip, drip, drip of his life running away from him. Taking a deep breath, he lifts the hem of his shirt and pulls it up over his injury. He closes his eyes briefly and steels himself for his first real look at the damage.

It's not as bad as he thought, or feels, he acknowledges with a grim smile. The flow of blood is so sluggish now he reckons he'll have it stopped in the next five minutes. A sudden pang of loneliness shoots through him as he pushes his wadded up scarf into his ribs as hard as he can. This, he thinks, is Aramis' job, not his. When he's got them all out of this, he'll make sure Aramis looks at it properly he promises himself. It never once occurs to him that they might not get out of this.

He uncurls the scarf and wishes he had another to hand. But he doesn't and needs must. So he wraps it around his ribs as a makeshift bandage and ties a knot in it as tightly as he dares, tight enough to control the seepage of blood but loose enough to allow him freedom to breathe comfortably.

In the brief pause he allows himself to regain his breath, he hears the sound of gates being drawn open and he knows this can mean only one thing. The men below are no longer content to rest on their laurels – and Porthos briefly wonders when he started using phrases like that – but are on the move, seeking vengeance for the man he killed without a second thought. He knows this means he's no longer safe, his refuge is no longer safe and he must move.

His hand seeks out his pistol, reassurance to be found in its cool solidity. He knows his sword is still in its sheath at his waist as he can feel it digging into his thigh where he is lying on it.

Shuffling forward as far as he dares, Porthos surveys the scene below. d'Artagnan is no longer in sight which worries him more than he cares to admit, but Athos and Aramis are still in the courtyard and he doesn't need to hear the words that are being spoken to know that neither soldier is happy. But, he reflects, they have the strength still to vocalize their feeling and that, he knows, means neither spirit is broken. It doesn't bode well for d'Artagnan though.

His observations are cut short by the sound of footsteps shuffling over the barren landscape. He shakes his head in despair for the youth of today and their apparent lack of training in the subtle art of hunting. He takes cover behind his now familiar rock and searches the area for any sign of which way his pursuers may be coming.

He spots them easily and he wonders if they truly have their heart in this quest; they are making no effort to conceal themselves and as he watches, a group of three split and go their separate ways. Porthos blinks, hardly able to bring himself to believe their stupidity. This, he decides, is definitely going to be much easier than he had anticipated. Even injured, he could have taken all three together – individually it hardly seems worth the effort.

He sits back and lets the trio wander, seemingly aimlessly, further and further away from him. They are, he decides, of no consequence to him and his thoughts returns to his brothers in arms below him. He needs a way to get to them that doesn't involve himself being on the wrong end of a musket and at the moment, with the majority of their foe seeking him out, this seems to be the best opportunity that he has been afforded up to now.

As far as he can tell, Athos still retains his limited liberty while Aramis, although still restrained, has regained his senses enough to be a feared opponent in their eventual fight for freedom. Porthos cannot tell from what he has seen how badly injured his best friend is but he knows the man well enough to know he can be relied on in these situations, even when perhaps he should take a back seat. If Aramis is spitting insults, which Porthos has no doubt he is, then he is capable of taking his share of the action when it comes.

Which leaves d'Artagnan. Porthos is more worried about the boy than he would have expected to be. Inexperience mixed with youth and a hot temper is not a good combination. Porthos has learnt that the hard way. The three musketeers have taken the young Gascon under their tutelage with enthusiasm but now, Porthos reflects, they may have been too lenient on the boy, protecting him from the harsh realities of their lives out of a misguided sense of duty.

Hiding up here, skulking like a coward, Porthos decides, is doing nobody any good – this sitting around doing nothing doesn't suit him. His mind made up, resolve sitting firmly in his heart, he casts a precautionary look around before rising carefully to his feet. His three stalkers are gone, whether into the distance, over hill, behind trees, Porthos neither knows nor cares. He's been in this profession long enough to trust his instincts and right now they're telling him those men are of no concern.

He makes his way down through the scrub towards the courtyard and decaying buildings with the skill gained through years of practice, experience and innate ability. Once or twice he stops, listening to noises which appear out of place to him, but each time he identifies the sound as night animals awaking and scurrying around.

Porthos has almost made it to the decrepit outer wall of the crumbling manor house when instinct makes him freeze, immobile where he stands. He doesn't know why he's compelled to stop; the silence from the other side of the wall is disconcerting but not worrying. Maybe, he thinks, it's the way the shadows on the wall look wrong, out of place for the amount of light dwindling in the sky.

Whatever is was, he reflects later, it probably saved his life.


	13. Chapter 13

**Title**: A Restlessness in Common  
**Author**: JenF  
**Chapters**: 13 of ?  
**Disclaimer**: I do not own the The Three Musketeers, D'Artagnan, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun.

* * *

"_How can I rest until I have had my vengeance?"_

Descarte's words ring in Athos' head as the man in question disappears into the stable block where d'Artagnan is, presumably, putting up a fight. His history with Descarte is more complicated than he can really put into words but he knows he has to try; he owes it to his comrades, the men who have become his family over the time he has known them.

He can feel Aramis at his side, takes strength from the warmth he senses radiating from the man who has borne the brunt of his past more than any of them. He looks down to where Aramis is still kneeling on the ground, his own eyes darting between the stable block and Athos, uncertainty written across his features. Athos hates that he's the one to have been responsible for the look, hates that whatever is happening to d'Artagnan is his fault, hates the duty he has inadvertently put on Porthos' shoulders.

He glares at the men Descarte has left behind him, admittedly now far fewer than before, and bends down, grasping Aramis firmly but tenderly by the shoulders. He shakes his head in reassurance as the man quivers involuntarily at the touch and resolves once more that Descarte will pay for his actions. Gently he raises Aramis to his feet, supporting him constantly as Aramis finds his feet, deliberately ignoring the ever increasing shaking of his companion's legs. This, he knows to his regret, is his fault and no matter how often or how adamantly he will be told otherwise, for he knows they will, he will never accept anything less than full responsibility for Aramis, d'Artagnan and Porthos' injuries and misfortunes in this regard.

Descarte's men seem unsure whether to intervene or not. It is, Athos reflects, as though they no longer have any idea what to do with them. In other circumstances he would laugh but their uncertainty could prove dangerous. A body of men with a mission follows rules and routines, making them predictable, exposing their weaknesses. Men whose actions have no sense to them are erratic and impulsive.

Athos puts them out of his mind as he turns Aramis to look at him. Aramis appears lost, scared and hurt, his eyes darting everywhere, resting on nothing. Athos takes his hands from his friend's shoulders and gently places one on either side of his face, turning Aramis to look directly at him. He's worried by how long it seems to take Aramis to focus on his face but when he does, when he finally acknowledges Athos' presence, he relaxes visibly and physically, leaning into the hands cradling him with such tenderness.

"This man needs to rest," Athos declares, throwing the words over his shoulder with the authority borne of years of leadership. His tone brooks no argument and, to his surprise, the men seem to straighten up at his command. He lets one hand drop and turns to seek out the new second in command.

The men shuffle their feet, looking from one to the other as though seeking out a spokesman, a man willing to take responsibility for decision making. After an uncertain few moments, a small, broad shouldered man steps forward. He nods towards a door hanging half off its hinges.

"Take him in there." He gestures with one hand, other still on the pommel of his sword. Athos nods once and, without looking back, guides Aramis towards the indicated shelter, muttering reassurances in his ear when the soldier beside him falters. He ignores the man following them at a healthy distance.

The shelter they have been afforded is dark and damp, hardly conducive to allowing Aramis the rest and recuperation he so clearly needs. But Athos will take it. They have been afforded solitude and Athos will not complain about that. The floor is filthy and the air rank, neither of which will help Aramis back to full strength. But Athos doesn't need him at full strength, just mobile, coherent and focused.

He finds a relatively clear spot on the floor and settles Aramis down. He tries to ignore the way his comrade's eyes don't stray from the door; tries to convince himself the man is simply standing guard over them both. Athos moves round until he is standing behind Aramis where he can get to the cruel bonds securing his arms tightly together.

He drops his hands down to Aramis' arms, determined to release him from his bonds, but Aramis flinches at the touch, twisting away from Athos' touch with a sharp intake of breath.

Athos freezes, resting his fingers on Aramis' wrists. "It's just me," he reassures him, unconsciously stroking the fragile skin, coming to rest on Aramis' pulse point. "You're safe now."

He knows the moment he's got through to Aramis when he feels his muscles loosen and his head drops, the vigil he's been keeping on the door abandoned now in exhaustion.

"Athos?" The word is so quiet Athos wonders if he's imagined it.

"You're safe," he repeats and wishes it were true. But for now it's what he believes Aramis needs to hear and he's happy to oblige, to give the man some respite from whatever memories are haunting him.

Aramis nods once and falls back into silence. Athos takes advantage of his acceptance and drops his eyes back to the ropes biting into Aramis' skin. Athos feels the fury he had thought buried, resurrecting itself as he contemplates the angry red skin on his friend's wrists, swollen around the ropes so that the bonds themselves have become embedded in the flesh. Dried blood informs Athos that Aramis has, at some point, tried, and failed, to wriggle free. All in all, he admits to himself, this is going to hurt Aramis as much, if not more, than leaving the rope where it is.

He picks at the rope with his fingers, testing the strength with which the knots hold. Aramis' struggles with it have tightened the strands to the extent that Athos cannot possibly free him with his bare hands. He sighs deeply, regretting it the instant Aramis' head spins round and big, wide eyes meet his.

"I'm sorry," Athos murmurs. "I can't undo these without a knife."

"It's okay," Aramis tells him, softly. "I understand."

But Athos won't give up that easily. He pats Aramis on the shoulder and stands up to explore their prison. It's a possibility, Athos reasons, that there is something here to help them. Descarte's men aren't the most astute although they follow their leader blindly. He scans their surroundings, deciding this was once a storehouse of some description. Hope builds in him as the shadows twist and turn and become more concrete shapes. In the darkest corner, he spots something that might just be what he's looking for.

He's three strides away when Aramis speaks, a voice cracked with disuse or abuse Athos can't decide.

"Who is he? Descarte?" Aramis asks. "What is he to you?"

Athos freezes. He knew this question would come but he had hoped to only explain once. But of all of them, Aramis deserves honesty and openness from him. The answer he has to give is one that promises to open old wounds, cause him pain all over again – pain he's long since buried away in the depths of despair and alcohol and silence. He doesn't know if he can go through it again without breaking completely.

But he owes it to Aramis. He owes it to all of them and if he should break then that is only what he deserves.

"Before I came to Paris," he begins, hesitantly, unwilling to put voice to his actions, "I lived a very different life. A quiet life. I bothered no-one and no-one bothered me. Or so I thought." He stops, lost in memories he had hoped to never relive. He's grateful that Aramis does not interrupt his silence, does not break his reverie.

He turns back to Aramis and through the gloom he can tell the other man is watching him with curiosity. His resolve almost breaks and he wishes with all his heart he could forego this confession. But then he thinks of the four days Aramis has waited for them, he thinks of d'Artagnan's current suffering across the courtyard, he thinks of Porthos and his selflessness in action. He thinks of how they have all suffered for his sake already and he knows he can no longer keep his past to himself.

And somewhere, deep inside, he knows he should have told them long ago.


	14. Chapter 14

**Title**: A Restlessness in Common  
**Author**: JenF  
**Chapters**: 14 of ?  
**Disclaimer**: I do not own the The Three Musketeers, D'Artagnan, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun.

* * *

d'Artagnan feels Descarte's words reverberate round the stable block. _Men have died for less_ echoes in his head as he watches the older man with trepidation. Somewhere along the line, d'Artagnan thinks, this man has lost his compassion and, quite possibly, his humanity. His words are cold but well chosen and d'Artagnan is quite sure at this point he is meant to be cowering beneath the weight of the threat.

But d'Artagnan isn't a man to be intimidated so easily. As Descarte continues to invade his personal space, his hand still resting uncomfortably on d'Artagnan's cheek, the young Gascon straightens up and attempts to stare him out.

Descarte notices immediately and laughs, patting d'Artagnan patronizingly before pushing him aside. d'Artagnan tries to maintain his balance, and his poise, but fatigue and temper get the better of him and he loses his footing, stumbling slightly. It's undignified but d'Artagnan doesn't care. Descarte lets him falter before stepping forward again.

"You're nothing here, boy," he hisses, spittle covering his chin. He swipes it away brusquely, leaning up close to the musketeer, so close d'Artagnan can smell the decaying odour of his last meal. "Do you have any idea what I'm going to do to you? To Aramis? To Athos?"

d'Artagnan freezes as the man utters the names of three of the most important people in his life. The honest answer is no, he has no idea. But conversely he doubts Descarte has any idea what he intends to do to him when he gets free, because d'Artagnan has no doubt that he _will_ get free and when he does Descarte will regret the day he set eyes on Aramis.

In the meantime, though, it's his job to stay alive but the look in his tormentor's eyes are making that option look like it may not be that easy. Somewhere in the depths of his eyes, d'Artagnan can see a hatred, a personal hatred for him, that he doesn't understand.

Descarte shakes his head and shoves d'Artagnan hard in the chest. The soldier stumbles backwards, hitting the wall with his back, and comes to an uncomfortable stop there. Descarte has fallen back into silence and d'Artagnan isn't sure what he prefers – the veiled threats or the ominous silence.

He doesn't have long to reflect on his preferences however as Descarte kicks out and sweeps d'Artagnan's legs from under him. He falls unceremoniously to the floor and topples over on to his side. Having his hand bound behind his back is becoming tiresome and more than a little inconvenient. He wonders what Athos would be doing in this situation and decides he would probably be talking his way out of it with diplomacy or threats of violence.

d'Artagnan's not a diplomat though, never has been, never will be. His reaction is instinctive, animalistic and heartfelt. He kicks out blindly at his antagonist, neither knowing nor caring where his foot will fall. As luck would have it, he lands a solid blow against Descarte's booted ankle and he allows himself a modicum of satisfaction at the surprised grunt he elicits from the older man.

His triumph is short lived however. d'Artagnan belatedly wonders if it had been such a smart move after all as Descarte's grunt quickly becomes a howl of rage and the man lashes out at him, becoming a blur of fists and feet aimed at the fallen man's body. Descarte is indiscriminate in his aim and d'Artagnan feels the full force of his fury in his ribs, over his legs, across his shoulders and finally a glancing, ill aimed blow to the side of his head which has the power to knock his vision sideways. For one mortifying moment d'Artagnan thinks he's going to throw up again as a brutal kick connects solidly with the soft flesh of his stomach.

As d'Artagnan rolls over, gagging and coughing and desperately trying to regain some composure, Descarte bends over him and grabs hold of the collar of his jacket, pulling him up until their faces are mere centimeters apart.

"Do you know why I don't just kill you here and now?" he demands.

d'Artagnan shakes his head, regretting it the instant he does it. "Why don't you?" he spits.

Descarte grabs his chin and forces d'Artagnan's head up until the Gascon has no choice but to meet his eye. What he sees chills him to the bone but he cannot bring himself to look away. The older man's face is a tableau of loathing. d'Artagnan hasn't been in Paris long enough to make many enemies, although he will admit to one or two so far, but the face he's looking at right now is truly one of a man who wishes him nothing but harm.

"What exactly are you to Athos?" Descarte ponders and the question takes d'Artagnan by surprise. He had been expecting more abuse, more intimidation and threats but the question sounds absurdly genuine. He frowns, his face aching where Descarte's final blow landed.

But it seems Descarte does not wish to wait for an answer. His grip on d'Artagnan's face tightens and the boy cannot help but wince as his fingers dig remorselessly into his jaw and cheeks. There will, d'Artagnan acknowledges, be bruises there by morning.

"I had a brother once," Descarte whispers, and d'Artagnan's confusion grows further. "He was younger than me by four years and yet his wisdom and compassion was an example to all of us. I looked up to him more than any other man." He stops and closes his eyes, seemingly lost in memories d'Artagnan can only guess at. Opening them again, he fixes a cold glare on the boy's face. "Do you have any idea what it's like to lose someone like that? How it feels to have that ripped away from you because someone thinks they are better than you? That your place in life is worth less than theirs?"

d'Artagnan feels his blood run cold. The description Descarte is putting forward of Athos is so far from his own experience of the man that he genuinely fears for his assailant's sanity. And that makes him even more dangerous than he originally thought. Athos, as far as d'Artagnan is concerned, has never put himself before anybody in terms of self worth. If anything, he muses, the man does himself a great disservice by forswearing his past and rightful position in life.

The musketeer jerks his head in an attempt to dislodge Descarte's painful grip on his face. He succeeds long enough to glare at the man before him and hiss, "You're wrong".

Descarte laughs and pushes d'Artagnan away from him roughly. He stands up and looks down on the musketeer at his feet.

"Youth has many advantages," he sermonizes, "but it also has many disadvantages. Blind faith is one of them." He moves to d'Artagnan's side, just out of sight and d'Artagnan turns his head as far as he can in order to keep him in view. As Descarte moves completely out of his line of vision, he can hear the sound of chains being dragged along the cobbled floor of the stables.

"You know nothing of life yet, child, and you know nothing of Athos." The words are gentle and d'Artagnan has to strain to hear them over the scraping and clanking of chains. Descarte reappears, dropping an ominous looking bundle heavily to the ground. He regards d'Artagnan coldly before pulling a knife from his belt, twirling it casually between his fingers. "I, on the other hand," he continues, "know everything there is know about him. About him and his companions – you included."

He grabs hold of d'Artagnan by his hair and pulls him roughly forward before leaning over him and slicing through the ropes binding his hands together, carelessly nicking the flesh above d'Artagnan's wrists. This, d'Artagnan thinks, is his opportunity. All he needs to do now is grab Descarte and a swift clash of heads would end this here and now. Unfortunately his arms simply fall to his side, limp and heavy. Hours of being bound in an unnatural position have numbed his nerves to the point where the rope is no longer needed.

Frustration vies with the cold, hard realisation that his chances of escape are diminishing by the minute as Descarte grasps his sleeve and yanks his arms forward. The numbness is fading only to be replaced by sharp, stabbing pains in his shoulder as sensation returns to his muscles. The cold, hard shackle Descarte snaps around his wrist is heavy and even if the older man hadn't attached the other end to an iron ring in the floor d'Artagnan knows he wouldn't be able to go far with it.

Descarte surveys his work and moves backwards, out of d'Artagnan's reach. d'Artagnan considers it a pointless manoeuver on his part but watches him warily anyway. The older man smiles at him and sits down opposite him. It's almost, d'Artagnan thinks wryly, as though he's about to tell him a bedtime story.

"Athos isn't the man you think he is," Descarte starts. "Let me enlighten you..."


	15. Chapter 15

**Title**: A Restlessness in Common  
**Author**: JenF  
**Chapters**: 15 of ?  
**Disclaimer**: I do not own the The Three Musketeers, D'Artagnan, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun.

* * *

Aramis studies the older musketeer's face. He's known him for many years and thought he knew every facial expression Athos has, but this one is new even to him. His friend's face is shuttered, closed off and frighteningly cold. Aramis has always joked that he wouldn't like to get on the wrong side of Athos but right now he's wondering if his question was out of place.

When Athos opens his mouth to answer, Aramis doesn't know what he's expecting – a tale of battles and treachery, of gallantry and morals. He's surprised by Athos' first words.

"Before I came to Paris I lived a very different life. A quiet life. I bothered no-one and no-one bothered me. Or so I thought."

There is a long silence, so long that Aramis begins to wonder if Athos has forgotten he's there. He doesn't want to shatter the moment but there's a bubble in his chest that's desperate to break free. He tries to stifle the cough but fails miserably as a wet, rasping hack forces its way past his lips. He wishes his hands were free so he could wipe the spittle off his chin, embarrassed by the sight he must present to Athos.

Athos frowns and Aramis is puzzled by his comrade's expression. But his confusion is soon pushed to the back of his mind, conquered by the sudden and agonizing pain ripping through his chest, starting in his lungs and sending tendrils of hurt down every fibre of his very being. He doubles up as best he can, coughing uncontrollably until he's left gasping for breath, tears running down his face, spittle covering his chin.

For a brief moment he forgets where he is, everything has paled into insignificance in light of this new sensation. Then a touch on his shoulder has him rocketing back to reality. He feels a hand in his hair and tenses, ready for the brutal yank he's become accustomed to. But it doesn't come. Fingers curl gently through the long locks and Aramis wishes his hair were cleaner. It's a ridiculously random thought, given the circumstances, and he laughs, slightly hysterically.

Then his head is pulled gently upwards until he is eye to eye with Athos. Through watery eyes he sees concern and a cleverly concealed panic. Anyone else, he muses, would miss the fear in Athos' eyes but Aramis has fought and played alongside this man for so long there's very little hidden any more.

"Aramis…" The older musketeer trails off as he manipulates Aramis' head from side to side, studying him intensely, so intensely Aramis begins to feel like a specimen in a mortician's catacomb.

Then Athos pulls his shirt free from his breeches and in one swift move he rips the fabric. With a tenderness that many, most even, would believe impossible from the man, Athos dabs gently at Aramis' face, wiping away the cough induced saliva. Aramis tries to nod in thanks but Athos is looking at the cloth in his hand.

"You're bleeding," he states, showing Aramis the soiled cloth. "Where are you hurt?"

Aramis frowns. His ribs hurt; his head hurts; his back hurts. He thinks it might be easier to tell his friend where it _doesn't_ hurt.

"It doesn't matter," Athos assures him and Aramis starts, realising he'd drifted somewhere along the line. Athos' hand is no longer in his hair but instead he can feel firm but gentle touches over his scalp, down his neck, over his shoulders and finally, painfully, over his ribs.

He can't help the sharp intake of breath as Athos finds a particularly tender spot which, in turn, sets off another bout of coughing.

"I'm sorry," Athos mutters but Aramis needs more than platitudes to take his mind off the pain. Athos is lifting his shirt to inspect the damaged flesh of his torso and Aramis steels himself for the spikes of agony he knows are going to accompany the soldier's ministrations, no matter how tender he tries to be.

"Tell me about your 'quiet life'," he gasps, screwing his eyes shut in preparation for Athos' field medicine.

Athos pauses, fingers grazing Aramis' brutalised body. His hand comes to rest above his heart. "There was a woman," he starts and Aramis wishes he had the energy to make a smart comment. "We were very much in love, or so I thought." He prods gently at Aramis' ribs, murmuring apologies when Aramis can't hold back a whimper. "She was everything I ever wanted," he continues. "Beautiful, graceful, intelligent, funny. I had our future planned – we would be happy in the countryside, just us and our children, surrounded by friends and family."

He stops and Aramis opens his eyes, wondering when he closed them. Athos is sitting back on his haunches, studying him intensely and Aramis tries to conjure up a winning smile. He knows he's failed when Athos frowns.

"I should stop," he decides. "You need to sleep."

Aramis can't quite explain the sudden panic those words provoke in him. He knows he's safe, knows Athos won't willingly let any harm come to him but he can't do it. He can't close his eyes in this place. The coughing has diminished and Athos doesn't look too worried right now and although the pain in his chest has set up a constant, strong throb.

"No!" he exclaims, a little more vehemently than he'd meant to. "No," he repeats, more softly. "Please. I need to hear your voice. Tell me more about her." He hates the pathetic tone in his request and he tries not to care but it seems that's just one more thing he can't do any more.

Athos sighs. "Her name was Anne," he murmurs. "She came to live on my estate with her brother, the local priest. She was carefree in a way I longed to be and before I knew it I was in love. We married shortly after – her brother performed the ceremony. I truly believed my life was perfect."

Aramis finds himself nodding in silent agreement, his thoughts wandering back to a time when he thought he'd found perfect love. He smiles ruefully, remembering lost love and the life he thought he'd wanted.

Athos is still speaking and Aramis screws up his brow in an effort to concentrate on what his friend is saying. Things are becoming difficult follow and he's putting it down to extreme exhaustion but he knows telling this story is hard for Athos and he won't do him the discourtesy of passing out half way through the tale.

"It turns out she wasn't who she said she was," Athos is saying. "Neither was her brother. She was a killer, Aramis. Nothing more than a common criminal, a mistress of deceit. I don't even know if she loved me. She and the priest were lovers, not brother and sister." He stops and takes a deep breath. "When I discovered her past, I did what any law abiding citizen would have done, even though it destroyed me. The executioner took her."

Athos stops and Aramis can't think of a single thing he can say to him. In other circumstances he would pull the older man into a manly hug even though Athos is the least tactile person he knows. He wants to do something but his chest is suddenly inexplicably tight again and there's another coughing fit knocking on the door.

When it's over, he's doubled over again – and how old is this becoming? Athos is rubbing his back and dabbing at his face again with that stained scrap of fabric that Aramis really, _really_, doesn't want to look at. He thinks there are more words of comfort falling from his friend's lips but he can feel another bout rising up through his chest.

And he knows that he's not going to get through this next bout and come out of it on the right side of consciousness.


End file.
